


Lykaia

by BewareTheIdes15



Category: Teen Wolf (TV) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Knotting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 07:26:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BewareTheIdes15/pseuds/BewareTheIdes15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This must be what Odysseus felt like at Anthemoessa, except Tyler’s not tied to a mast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lykaia

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the third round of stop_drop_howl for orbiting_saturn's prompt "come on over"
> 
> For those interested, here's some more info on the celebration of [Lupercalia](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lupercalia)

“You have to come! It's my first college Lupercalia! What if some big bad wolf tries to sully my virtue? I need someone to protect me!"   
  
The words ping around the inside of Tyler’s skull like fireflies trapped in a jar, crystal clear over the heavy bass rattling the smattering of pictures on the walls. Every replay, Dylan’s voice seems to be implying something different.   
  
Of course, he’d known it was a ploy; Dylan didn't need anybody to protect him, and if he did there’s not much Tyler’s breakable human self could do about it. But Dylan's got these obnoxious doe-eyes that Tyler just can't say no to, even if he does have a far more convenient – i.e. private – dorm room on the other side of campus that he knows for a fact his roommate isn’t coming back to tonight.   
  
So now Tyler's here, shoving his way through the madhouse that has taken over the Alphas’ downstairs; claustrophobic and self-conscious since Daniel commandeered his shirt at the front door. Apparently shirts are antithetical to the Lupercalia spirit.   
  
This must be what Odysseus felt like at Anthemoessa, except Tyler’s not tied to a mast.   
  
Also, he may need to cool it on the lit credits.   
  
He’s trying to keep up with the tiny ripple of space that orbits around Dylan whichever way he moves, but nobody’s doing a Red Sea impersonation for Tyler so he keeps bumping along behind, knocked and shoved and, oh, ok, that was groping, full-on, to the package groping. That is  _not_  ok.   
  
Tyler pauses to gripe out whoever the hell just tried to five-finger-discount his junk, even though he has no way of telling which of the half-dozen sweaty, sex-blissed looking people in arm’s reach it actually was, and then Dylan’s hand is gripping his wrist and Dylan’s growl is vibrating on the air and a circle of crackley parquet floor is expanding around them like an imploded star as people trip over each other trying to back out of Dylan’s space.   
  
As the almost subsonic rumble emitting from Dylan’s chest eases, he shoots Tyler a ruby-eyed grin - smug little shit - and they’re off again, Tyler straggling along behind as Dylan uses his arm like a leash.   
  
On some level it’s never really going to compute for Tyler that Dylan - quirky, easygoing, elf-nosed Dylan - is a bona fide alpha badass, but it seems like he’s the only one on campus who has that issue.   
  
The first night he walked out of the team locker room to find some skinny kid with a backward cap chewing on a fingernail in the hallway, he hadn’t thought anything about it. Probably wouldn’t have at all except for how Keahu had stopped dead in front of him, blocking the doorway, hackles up in a way Tyler had never seen off the field. Dylan had just smiled that smile of his and gone all spastic-excited about how awesome they had played.   
  
Tyler had ended that night listening to Dylan trying to pull the old ‘he followed me home, can I keep him’ on the rest of the Alpha House. He’s still not entirely sure how much of a joke that was.   
  
Contrary to what some people think, not all of the Alpha brothers are weres, and the people they hang around with definitely aren’t that genome exclusive. There are a lot more human eyes staring back at him as they shove their way through the orgy-slash-living-room than there are electric blue or gleaming gold. The only splotches of molten red in the mob are the slits where Sinqua’s body is sandwiched between no less than three lacey-bra’d girls Tyler’s never seen before. It’s good to be alpha, he guesses.   
  
The house is packed to the gills, a seething mass of barely-covered skin blanketed in a haze of body heat and the sticky-sweet scent of anise-laced pot. That goes a long way toward explaining the night-sky spread of Dylan’s pupils when he flips around all of a sudden at the bottom of the stairs, throws his arms around Tyler’s neck and starts rubbing his face all over Tyler’s own.   
  
Posey is getting a serious talking to about how much weed he’s allowed to supply Dylan with.   
  
Embarrassed heat stings in the tips of Tyler’s ears as he stands there, shocked still, hands hovering awkwardly at his sides. This isn’t what they do. Not that he’s got any illusions about Dylan’s frat brothers knowing about them, but they don’t flaunt it like this. Dylan’s tongue rasping across his cheek, Dylan’s teeth tugging at his earlobe like a puppy with a toy, Dylan’s hand sliding down his stomach to palm at the fly of his jeans. It’s the second time in ten minutes he’s had somebody pawing at his dick, except this time he knows every werewolf in the room can tell he’s getting hard.   
  
Applying some pressure to Dylan’s shoulders, he hisses, “Upstairs.” There’s no way Tyler can actually make Dylan move if he doesn’t want to, but Dylan’s usually pretty good about letting Tyler have his way.   
  
This time, Dylan growls into Tyler’s ear and tightens his hand just enough to make Tyler’s breath gum up in his lungs. Yep, he just leaked precome into his boxers. People are definitely staring.   
  
Dylan’s moving too, though, backing up just enough that Tyler can clumsily shuffle up one step at a time with him. Very literally led by his dick. That sounds about right for him and Dylan, actually.   
  
“This is really uncomfortable,” Tyler points out, gritting his teeth around the urge to stutter when Dylan licks at his collarbone. The twitching of his cock takes a little wind out of the argument, but it’s still the god’s honest truth.   
  
Dylan mumbles a noise Tyler can’t decipher and leans up the fraction of an inch it takes to rub his damp lips against Tyler’s. “You were the one bitching about upstairs. You’d rather I put you on your knees right here, I will.”   
  
The breath punches out of Tyler for reasons that have nothing to do with Dylan’s fingers teasing at his balls through his jeans. In the years since he first got assigned Keahu as a roommate, Tyler’s gotten used to the fact that there’s really no such thing as privacy with werewolves in his life. Between the hearing and the smelling and the weird ‘just sense it’ thing that no one can seem to explain to him, he doesn’t really have any secrets left. That doesn’t make him an exhibitionist. Apparently his dick didn’t get that memo.   
  
“What’s gotten into you?” He’s whispering, even though anyone who actually knows them enough to care can probably hear him anyway, music be damned.   
  
“Nothing yet,” Dylan purrs, playing at kisses that never really amount to anything against Tyler’s lips. “You wanna fix that for me?”   
  
He backs up another step, hand still tight enough that Tyler has to hobble along with him. His feet are braced wide on the stair, a hand each on the bannister and the wall for a precarious sense of balance.   
  
Between that and Dylan’s freaking claws – he hasn’t been worked up enough to walk around with those out since the first time he and Tyler hooked up – scratching just hard enough at Tyler’s sensitive bits that he can feel it through the denim, it’s tough to make his, “I think the deal was for the other way around,” come out as cool as he’d like it to sound.   
  
Regardless, it does the trick. Dylan pulls back enough that Tyler can make out his whole face; eyes so bright that the angle of his cheekbones is washed in scarlet, nose crinkled a little bit like his lip is trying to peel back in a snarl. He growls loud enough that everybody in the hallway below goes silent and then he’s letting go of Tyler’s package to fist his hand at Tyler’s belt instead, all but dragging him up the rest of the stairs two at a time.   
  
***  
  
The second the door to Dylan’s room shuts behind them, Dylan’s on him. Luckily it’s a small room, because Tyler crosses the distance to the bed on a flat-palmed shove from Dylan, landing with his legs hanging out in the air. Then Dylan’s on top of him and he sort of loses the plot for a minute amidst all the kissing and nipping and groping.   
  
“You fucking- you mean it? You really really mean it?” Dylan slurs, almost incomprehensible around the bite of Tyler’s pectoral muscle he’s mounding between his teeth. “I mean, it’s ok if you don’t. It’s not that big of a-“  
  
Tyler cuts him off, because that lie is too pathetic to bother with. “I meant it.”   
  
Dylan looks up at him like Tyler just discovered a new planet and named it after him.   
  
“Best Lupercalia present ever,” he says, threading his fingers into Tyler’s hair and crawling up his body for a deep, searching kiss. “ _Ev-er._ ”  
  
It’s not something they’ve talked about extensively since the first time all those months ago. Even then, Tyler had been the one to bring it up. He’d never slept with a werewolf before, but he wasn’t totally oblivious - and if he had been, well, there’s really no way not to notice a big knot at the base of somebody’s dick. Dylan had been palpably uncomfortable talking about it, spent most of the conversation teething at Tyler’s fingertips. Who knows which one of them that was meant to be a distraction for, but he’d finally, quietly admitted that he’d never tied anybody before and Tyler had let the matter drop.   
  
They hadn’t really been dating at the time, haven’t even officially agreed they are now, even though all the werewolves Tyler knows treat him like he’s got Dylan’s name tattooed on his forehead. It had been too personal, too intimate to just agree to something like that on a whim when he didn’t know if Dylan was even that into him, let alone if he was that into Dylan.   
  
By now he’s pretty sure it would take a wolfsbane crowbar to get Dylan off of him. Turns out he likes it that way.   
  
Swaying on his feet – people can wax poetic about werewolf grace all they want, Tyler knows better – Dylan stands up for exactly the six seconds it takes to rid them both of the oppression of pants and then he’s tumbling back into bed.   
  
By then Tyler’s managed to get himself situated so his entire body is at least on the mattress, but that’s all he gets before Dylan’s straddling his chest with a shaky hiccup of breath, hands fumbling for Tyler’s wrists. Instead of pinning them like Tyler was more than half expecting, Dylan grabs one and pulls it up to his mouth. Licks a long stripe up Tyler’s palm before sucking his middle finger in just long enough to make Tyler’s dick jealous.   
  
“You know what you do to me?” Dylan asks, voice way down in the gutter along with Tyler’s mind. He does a lot of things to Dylan, most of them he didn’t even know he wanted until they were spread-eagle in his lap.   
  
Evidently it’s a rhetorical question, because Dylan doesn’t wait for an answer before pressing Tyler’s hand to his chest and using his own to get a grip on Tyler’s hair. “You could drive a guy crazy. It’s a full-time job trying to keep myself from mounting you every time I see you walk across the quad.”   
  
Fingers tightening in Tyler’s hair, Dylan tugs until Tyler tips his head back, lips parting. Then Dylan knees up and rocks forward, slower than Tyler would have given him credit for a second ago, rubbing the tender give of his balls across Tyler’s mouth. The tip of his cock leaves a sloppy skid along Tyler’s forehead.   
  
“Don’t even get me started on the gym. And your fucking baseball uniform. How you go through life without every person on the planet trying to fuck your brains out is a goddamn mystery.”   
  
Because it’s there and he can, Tyler rubs his knuckles over Dylan’s nipple, wet and dry, back and forth until it’s pebbled tight between Tyler’s fingers. Dylan groans in the back of his throat and pulls back enough to tease his dick across Tyler’s lips again.He’s taken hold of it in a loose fist, letting Tyler get a couple of shallow sucks at the head before he’s easing out of reach again, smearing wet over the prickly point of Tyler’s chin.   
  
He’s got this look in his eyes like he’s expecting Tyler to back out any second and like he might actually die if Tyler does.   
  
Tyler will be the first to admit his sexual resume is limited, but even if he’d spent his first couple of years of college sleeping around like most of the guys on the team, he’s still pretty sure he’d have been floored by Dylan. The strength is a part of it; that even at Tyler’s size, Dylan can make him feel delicate. More, though, it’s watching the push-pull of Dylan wanting to boss him around and, at the same time, wanting to give Tyler everything he asks for; possessive and desperate and grateful all at once. There’s something genuinely addictive about sleeping with someone who wants him that much.   
  
Like he’s savoring it, Dylan reaches up enough to brace a hand on the wall over the headboard and slowly drags the soft heft of his balls down the side of Tyler’s face. The weird part is that Tyler’s gotten used to this.   
  
“What, coming in my ass isn’t enough scent-marking for you?”   
  
On the off chance Dylan was about to take the complaint seriously, he lifts his head up to glide his tongue along the seam of Dylan’s balls. He smells warm and wild in a specifically Dylan-ish way. Tyler catches a ridiculous flutter in his chest at the faint hint of soap. His standards have seriously dropped if he’s getting flattered over Dylan taking a shower for him.   
  
Above his head, Tyler hears a grating sound and squeezes his eyes shut against a fine rain of plaster.   
  
“Damnit. You can’t just...” Dylan has to extract his claws from the drywall to roll his hand in a vague gesture. There are five long, diagonal scores in the light blue paint and any second now Tyler’s going to start feeling bad about that, he’s sure.   
  
“Say that you’re going to come in my ass?” Tyler doesn’t try very hard to hide his grin against the side of Dylan’s knee. Dylan thunks his head against the wall.   
  
“Where was all this sass downstairs, huh?”   
  
“I don’t like to perform for an audience.”   
  
Tyler ignores the faint tightness in his throat as he says it. Sure he'd gotten a little hard, but that's a physiological reaction. These things happen.   
  
The tilt of Dylan's eyebrows doesn't seem to buy it. “Oh really?”   
  
Have a boyfriend who can hear when you’re lying is a major pain in the ass.   
  
“I tried to get you to come to my place, remember,” Tyler huffs, crossing his arms over his chest even though Dylan can't see anything but his face.   
  
Dylan smirks down at him. Smug. Little. Shit. “Not what I was oh really-ing about. But we can get back to that later.”   
  
Before Tyler has a chance to say anything more on the subject, all the air is socked out of his lungs by his own body weight as he's suddenly flipped over on the mattress. Dylan's pressed against his back just as quickly, the tiny scrap of air Tyler had managed to gather up squeezed right back out again at the feel of a bent knuckle pressing past the slick give of his hole.   
  
"You prepped?" Dylan sounds like he's not having much better luck with the breathing situation than Tyler. He's nuzzling his face into the side of Tyler's neck in that way that's got no business being sexy and yet still is, but it's really hard to focus on that when Dylan's still shallowly fucking into Tyler with one curled knuckle.   
  
"I've seen your knot," Tyler counters, pushing back into it a little as the knob of Dylan's finger pops free again. "Good thing, too, with your manicure."   
  
Dylan grumbles something like the street-pizza version of, "Shut up," but the head of his dick is nudging up behind Tyler's balls at the same time, so the heat of it is somewhat lost.   
  
Without actively using his hands, Dylan doesn't have much in the way of aim, which means that he mostly ends up leaving a lot more snail-trails of precome to mark up Tyler's thighs. There's only so much real estate he can cover back there, though, and Tyler's nearly vibrating with anticipation by the time he actually hits the bullseye.   
  
"Can I just-"  
  
"Oh my god, please."   
  
And then he's in; a slow slide getting slicker with the lube Tyler's got smeared all up inside of him and more precome as Dylan's body gets with the program.   
  
Doing it like this isn't a complete novelty. Tyler likes getting fucked, under the right circumstances - he's not one of those guys who goes crazy for it, but it can be fun. When they do, it's always careful, though; taking it slow so they can keep track of how Dylan's body is reacting. More often than not, Dylan will keep his hand around the base to stop himself from slipping all the way in, just in case. But now, Tyler's got Dylan all the way inside of him, soft crinkle of hair pressed up tight to his ass and this hot, solid weight so deep in there it feels like it ought to be getting friendly with his lungs.   
  
He's pretty sure that somehow or other he's lost feeling in his fingertips.   
  
Over the roar of blood in his ears, Tyler can faintly hear Dylan muttering something under his breath. It takes a minute for him to work out that it's "Not gonna come, not gonna come, not gonna come."   
  
"Like hell you're not," Tyler husks out, five miles of bad road packed into his voice. He arches back into it as if there's any more of Dylan to possibly stuff in there, biting down hard on a noise when the tongue-in-a-lightsocket sensation of all that hardness pressing against his soft parts zips straight up his spine and starts building a fort at the base of his skull.   
  
Dylan's hands slap to the mattress on either side of Tyler's head. The tips of his claws pick threads free from the sheets as he moves, hunkering down so his face is pressed into the dip between Tyler's shoulder.   
  
His voice in skin-muffled, a very specific fully-shifted slur to it when he says, "You are such and asshole.” Then he's thrusting, the first one tentative, slipping straight into feral before he's even hit the outstroke. “I love you so much."   
  
Between the prep before he came over and the show they put on in the hall, Tyler feels like he's been hard for years. His dick is leaking thin strings for precome onto the bed only to have them snap wet against his stomach with every headboard-shaking push of Dylan's hips. The very tip of it just grazes the sheets every few thrusts, and coupled with the deep, steady pounding, he has a feeling it's not going to take long to get there.   
  
There's something manic in the way Dylan is going at him, a level of comfortable control that just isn't there, like he really is wild, dangerous. Tyler would have never in a million years thought that would be a turn on, but every time that bliss-spark nails him as Dylan thrusts in, never quite fading before it's happening again, all he can think is that they waited way too long to try this.   
  
"Almost," Dylan growls, way sooner than Tyler had been anticipating, and Tyler catches himself clenching up without thinking about it, trying to feel where the knot is going to pop.   
  
Turns out he didn't need to, because as soon as it starts filling out, there's no way to avoid it. Dylan's hips move slower, dragging back out a touch more reluctantly each time. The rim of Tyler's hole clings to it before letting it pop free, and the bottom drops out of Tyler's stomach.   
  
There's a cold sweat moment when all of his instincts scream 'stop' at him, 'too much, too much'. Tyler's clawing at the sheets and he thinks he might have made some kind of noise as Dylan pushed back in because Dylan's shushing and crooning and soothing at him even as Tyler feels the swell of pressure stop on a dime  _right fucking there_  and the liquid rush of heat starts.   
  
There is a very real possibility that Tyler screams when he comes. It almost hurts it feels so good, or maybe hurts so much it's skipped right back around again to pleasure. He's shaking by the time it semi-sorta ends, the knot pressing just so at his sweet spot to keep him there at the height of it without, quite, going insane.   
  
With some significant stop-start effort, Dylan manages to get them turned over onto their sides. Tyler would help, but all the tendons and ligaments connecting his bones together have melted. He's just going to lay here and slowly die of pleasure on Dylan's dick.   
  
In fact, Dylan seems like he'd probably be ok with that. Possibly minus the dying. He's still snuffling at the back of Tyler's neck, making these quiet, happy noises that don't really mean anything. That really mean everything.   
  
He's also petting at Tyler's stomach, which feels pretty good and is also ever so slightly creepy.   
  
"If you were hoping to knock me up, I think anatomy has some bad news for you, Dyl." Tyler's voice sounds like it's been through a meat grinder, and the hand he uses to still Dylan's over his bellybutton is trembling, but he thinks he might actually be ok. It may take ten years, but there is a vague possibility that he’ll recover after all.   
  
A small, slightly crazy-sounding laugh titters out of Dylan, turns into a full-on guffaw that drags out until he's panting and out of breath against Tyler’s back. The motion jars his dick where it is - newsflash - still buried to the hilt in Tyler's ass, making Tyler extra aware of the jerky pulses of Dylan still coming in there. All Tyler's research said that the first time could last anywhere from ten to forty-five minutes, but it didn't say that Dylan was going to be coming the whole time. Fucking alphas.   
  
When he finally calms down enough to speak again, Dylan wheezes, "Eh, I'm only with you for your abs anyway. Shame to ruin them."   
  
He giggles again, catching his teeth - back to blunt, human ones, thankfully - at Tyler's shoulder, his ear.   
  
It takes several more minutes of quiet breathing before Dylan gets it together enough to sound reasonably like himself when he asks, "Was it okay? I mean, I thought for a second you were trying to say stop, but I was already locked in and I didn't want to hurt you worse trying to-"  
  
"It was good," Tyler interrupts, not 100% sure he means it until he hears it fall past his lips. "Intense. More than I was expecting. But good."   
  
This time when Dylan noses at him, Tyler twists enough to touch their lips together in a short, soft kiss. "Just, maybe we can save it for special occasions. I kinda feel like I have a baseball in my ass."   
  
"Kinky," Dylan grins, but he's also holding still enough that the pressure against Tyler's insides doesn't flare.   
  
They settle down again, this time with a pillow under their heads, Dylan's arm crooked beneath that where Tyler can just barely feel it. Downstairs the music is still going strong, muffled voices and the occasional howl rising above the ruckus. If he really did scream when he got off, he's never going to hear the end of it.   
  
"I love you too, by the way," he says, squeezing the arm Dylan has looped around his middle.   
  
There's really no way to make it sound casual. Tyler doesn't bother trying.

 


End file.
